Blood Curse
by Ca11umism
Summary: Beat cop Sasuke Uchiha gets more than he bargained for when he arrests a pink haired gunslinger one night. He discovers a centuries old quest that puts him in the middle of a war between the Vampires and Werewolves that inhabit Konoha city's terrifying hidden world. One which he may have a large role to play.


**-'HE'-**

His eyes opened to darkness.

He looked around, praying for some sign that could tell him where he was. His eyes began to adjust, but it wasn't enough. Outlines of a table and some chairs were all he could make out through the black, jutting down from the ceiling like stalactites in a cave.  
That was when he noticed he was hanging upside down.  
He forced himself to look up, the muscles in his shoulders and neck straining terribly, and made out the shape of his feet above him. Cold iron chains lashed his ankles together, wrapped around and around several times to bear his weight, the slack climbing up past his feet and into the darkness. Where was he?

A light suddenly appeared, splitting the darkness like an axe through wood, and he covered his face with his arms. "Don't be so shy," a voice said, cold and droll. "The Master would want you to enjoy this."  
"Who are you?" he asked, voice trembling. He couldn't see the figure, the light hurt his eyes so much he couldn't see anything but white light.  
"Never you mind," footsteps echoed across the floor. "It makes no difference who I am. What matters is who you are, and what you can provide the Master."  
He blinked half a dozen times, trying to force his eyes to accept the light so that he could see better, but it didn't work. "There's no need to fuss," the voice said. The clink clank sound of steel on steel started somewhere to his side, where he'd made out the table before. "It will be over soon."

Finally, his eyes accepted the light, and he took his first look at the figure. It was man, thin and gaunt, with a mess of ebony hair. He could only see one side of the face, as the man had his focus on the table, but even then, he could tell the man was horrifyingly pale, as if he hadn't seen the sun in years. He wore a cloak, a long, black thing with queer shapes scattered across it. "What do you want from me?" The man didn't answer. Instead, the pale man just went about fiddling with whatever was on that table. The clinking and the clanking grew increasingly agitating to him. _"Answer me!"_ he snapped.

The pale man turned to him, and he immediately regretted shouting. The pale man's eyes were the most disturbing things he'd ever seen, black as coal and emanating rage. "Do _not_ raise your voice in the Master's presence," the pale man said, cold as ice. Chills shot straight up his spine, and he began to wet himself. "The Master is frailed, and has not the strength for your wailing." Piss dripped down his chest, soaking his shirt. The pale man turned back to the table and began working again. "The Master has been locked away _far too long_." He wasn't sure if the pale man was talking to him or himself, but he held his tongue of out fear of what the pale man might do to him.

For a long while, there was silence between them, the only sound being the clinking and clanking of whatever was on the table. He contemplated escape, but had no way to break the chains, and was almost certain that he wouldn't be able to get by the pale man even if he could. Eventually, the sound of footsteps began outside. He could hear voices too, some calm and droll, some frantic and high pitched. "You're going to _love_ him, Master," one of voices said, a bit too eager for his liking. "It took _so long_, but it was worth it."

His throat went dry as several figures entered. They each wore the same black cloak as the pale man, with the same weird patterns. Two, a blond haired man who looked younger than he was, and a stick thin man with long, greasy black hair and eyes like a serpent, guided an old man gently. Each held an arm, and took short steps to keep the old man from overstepping. He couldn't make out the old man's face, as the light shone from behind and wreathed the old man in shadow, but he could tell that, apart from a few wisps of white hair sticking out of the old man's shiny pate, the old man was completely bald.

The pale man turn the others and fell to one knee. "Master. He is awake." The frail old man looked at him. "We are ready to proceed with the ritual."

_'Ritual?'_ he thought. _'What ritual?'_ what were they going to do with him?

The old man took a step towards him. His guides moving with him "He has the blood?" the voice was raspy, desperate. "He has _my_ blood?" The pale man nodded.  
"He meets all the requirements."  
The old man took another step and, for the first time, he saw the most petrifying thing he had even seen. The Master was a hideous beast of a man. His skin was black and blistered, like a piece of meat left in the flame for too long. Vile green patches of something spread over the skin, slimy and shimmering in what little light there was. Veins popped out from beneath the skin like trails on a map. But the worst thing, by far, was the old man's eyes. They were the vibrant, crimson red of fresh blood. Several black patterns criss-crossed the red beautifully, like some artist had sketched them out with charcoal. He almost spit up then and there, but somehow held his stomach.

He let out a scream, and the old man fell backward with an awful wail. The followers screamed in fright, and leapt to catch the falling man. "How _dare_ you!" the pale man growled, stepping forward and punched him hard in the stomach. He felt something break, and spat up blood.  
"_No!_," the old man cried. "Don't spill his blood!..._I need it al_l!" The pale man ran to the table and grabbed something, came back, and shoved a silver dish under his head. Blood began to drip down his face and land with a _'plop'_ in the dish.  
"I'm sorry Master," the pale man fell to his knee again by the old man. "I let my anger get the best of me. It shan't happen again." The other followers helped the old man to his feet. The old man looked both furious and exhausted.  
"See that it doesn't. I'd hate to have to take your blood as well." The old man looked down to the dish, where a pool of Scarlett had formed. "_Bring_ me it, I must _taste_ him. I must _know_." The pale man replaced the dish beneath him with another, and lifted the filled dish to the old man's lips. He cringed as the old man drank the blood from the dish with the eagerness of a baby bird devouring a regurgitated worm from it's mother's beak.

The blood spilt from the old man's lips and dribbled down his chin in thin cords. "Yes," the old man cried to the sky. "Yes!...I feel my strength returning, I feel strong-" his voice was cut off as he threw up, a mix of blood and God knows what else splattering across the floor. He hacked and sputtered at the stench. The old man, hunched over with blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, cried out in torment. "No!" he wailed. "He is _not_ the one...he is _worthless_...he is _worthless_!" the followers bent to help him to his feet again. "Take me back. I need my chamber...I feel weak again already." they lead him out, leaving him alone with the pale man once more.

His stomach still hurt awfully, as if a fire had been set in his ribcage. He moaned with each breath. The pale man looked at him with those terrible black eyes and screamed. "You...you're worthless!...your disgusting poison could have _killed_ the Master!...you _vile_, disgusting _scum_!" He started shaking, wiggling from side to side in the hope that the chains would give way, but there was no use. The pale man leant in and opened his mouth, and a pair of razor sharp teeth glimmered in the light.

A/N: That was the prologue. Tell me what you think and I might continue with it. Thanks.


End file.
